


Of Pints and Rugby-vision

by beetle



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, all-human AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:52:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two law students go pub-crawling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Pints and Rugby-vision

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, dears.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: AU. Plot? What plot?!

“Okay, what about  _that_  tall drink of milk? The one with the glasses?”  
  
Charles snags his beer off the bar countertop without even glancing at whatever guy his obnoxious roomie so excited about. “Know what, Linds, how ‘bout I just pretend like I don’t know you, and go stand way over there? Sound like a plan?”   
  
Without waiting for an answer, Charles moves away from the bar and Lindsey. Lindsey, of course, follows him.  
  
“What? okay, so maybe I’m not so good at scoping out hotties when they have a y-chromosome. But maybe if you weren’t so damn picky, I wouldn’t need to wedge your broody, no-date-havin’ ass out of the apartment with the jaws of life every three months.”  
  
In the middle of bar-traffic, Charles turns to face his pint-sized pal and is confronted by a big, innocent grin which is actually only one of those things.   
  
“Okay, first? Charles Gunn doesn’t brood, he ponders. Second?  _Hotties_? What are you, a thirteen year old girl? And third--since you aren’t actually attracted to the rougher sex, what makes you think your opinion means squat, cowboy?”  
  
“Hey.” Lindsey’s smile has relaxed into the usual grin, and his bright blue eyes twinkle mischievously. “I’m just tryin’ ta hook a brotha up, know what I’m sayin’?”  
  
Delivered in Lindsey’s shit-kickin’, good-ol’-boy accent, that phrase is wrong enough to make Charles groan.  
  
“You are, without a doubt, the whitest man on the planet.”  
  
“This coming from the only homey with more Gilbert and Sullivan LPs than Method Man cds?”  
  
Charles blushes and is  _very_  glad for his complexion and the general dimness of the pub. “Look,  _your_  girlfriend's the one told me it was 'great for elocution'. That it should be 'required listening' for law students.“  
  
“Man, don’t even,” Lindsey scoffs, pushing past Charles toward the back of the bar; ostensibly to find them a decent table. “I distinctly remember helping you unload half those records from your truck when we moved into the dorm. Don’t try to play me, Charlie-boy.”  
  
“Told you not to call me that.” With a sigh, Charles follows his friend’s worn in plaid shirt through a maze of more sedately-dressed--and sober-faced--British gents, saying things in accents straight out of  _Monty Python_. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d probably be able to pick out a word or five, but as it is, it’s just easier to let the accents--which are kinda cool--wash over him.   
  
 _Be glad when the semester’s finally over, though,_  he thinks, stifling a jaw-cracker of a yawn.  _Spend a week back in DC with pop and Alonna, get some r and r . . . then back out here. Still can’t believe Linds and I got summer internships at_ Wolfram&Hart _. That’s the kind of gig any law student’d sell their souls and their first born for. . . ._  
  
“I just can’t get over you owning actual  _records_  of actual  _show-tunes_ ,” Lindsey tosses blithely over his shoulder, never minding who might be listening. A quick glance around confirms that no one is. “Which makes  _you_  both the whitest and the gayest man in the universe. This a good table?”  
  
The table in question is relatively out of the way of the small groups of guy milling around, talking and pointing at the t.v.s mounted over the bar . . . which appear to be showing--yep, a rugby match.  
  
 _Whatever._  Charles sits down with a groan. “Yeah, that’s real funny, man. But can’t everybody be listenin’ to Dwight Yoakum or whoever the hell you listen to while  _I’m_  tryin’ to cram.“  
  
Lindsey pulls out his chair and straddles it backwards, one of those weird cowboy habits neither Charles nor Eve have been able to break him of. “It’s  _The Blue Mountain Boys_ , bro, and they help me concentrate.” Lindsey looks around the bar critically. “Anyway, I brought you here so you could unwind, you know? Not bitch about my taste in music. I coulda been at Evie’s tonight gettin’ my freak on--”  
  
“ _Freak on_? Linds- I hate to break it to you--but you’re not black--”  
  
“--gettin’ my freak on with Eve and I pass that up to take you out and make sure  _you_  get laid. The way I see it, that makes me a selfless, caring roommate and makes  _you_  a thankless, sullen sonuvabitch.” Lindsey tries to shape his face into something approximating a stern glare. “Look around, brotha-man! Scorin’ in here’ll be like shootin’ fish in a barrel!”  
  
Charles takes a quick look at the bars patrons, then frowns at Lindsey’s misguided enthusiasm. “Not that I don’t appreciate you being my wing-man--it ain’t even  _like_  that--but what makes you think I’d want any guy in this place. Or vice versa?” Charles shakes his head. “See that tv over the bar? It's showin’ a  _rugby_  match and--yeah everyone in here is English. So I ask you again: what makes you think this place, plus Charles Gunn, equals getting laid?”  
  
“These guys are probably droolin’ in their black-and-tans at the thought of takin’ home a big piece of dark chocolate like yourself, Chuck.” Lindsey’s smile turns mock-sultry and Charles feels a booted foot sliding slowly up his inseam. He immediately smacks Lindsey’s foot away; Lindsey probably hasn’t cleaned his boots since his last visit to Oklahoma, land of dust and giant cow-patties.  
  
“God, Charlie, your  _face_ \--!” Lindsey laughing so hard, his neck has indeed, turned red. But Charles’s glare? Is less than amused.  
  
“Can’t take you  _nowhere_.”   
  
“I’ll bet if you got laid more often, you’d have a better sense of humor. Or maybe just  _have_  a sense of humor.” The laughter has degenerated into the amused smirk that Charles finds particularly infuriating.  
  
“Way  _I_  see it, you shouldn’t be smirking. You should be apologizing. I can’t believe you dragged me to some gay pub with rugby-vision. I take it back: you’re a  _terrible_  wing-man.”  
  
“Well . . . this isn’t a  _gay_  pub, per say.” The shit-eatin’ grin is back and it stretches from ear-to-ear. That can’t be good.  
  
“Then I ask you, again: why are we here? We coulda gone to  _Plug Ugly’s_  or  _Poolbegs_ \--or even that weird ass karaoke bar you like so much.” Just as Charles finishes speaking, a wild cheer goes up all over the bar. Something good must’ve happened in rugby-ville.  
  
“Chuck--these guys  _are_  English.  _English_!” Lindsey leans in to whisper emphatically, as if imparting a great secret. “C’mon, probably half these guys are either gay or bi!”  
  
After an eternity’s worth of disbelieving stare, Charles buries his face in his hands and moans. “Sweet Jesus, you make my head ache.”  
  
“ _English_!”  
  
“Could you please stop saying that?” Too mortified to uncover his eyes, let alone look around, Charles can only hope Lindsey’s tone is low enough not to carry.  
  
“I’m just saying rumors are usually based on facts,” the world’s worst wing-man carries on, obviously unable to contain his glee over his own brilliance. Charles is quickly realizing something about his best friend: the only thing scarier than Lindsey’s endearing insincerity is his rare--but always misplaced--sincerity.  
  
“Once again, I’m feeling the strong urge to move away from you.” Charles picks up his pint and starts to stand. Lindsey puts a hand on Charles's arm to stop him.   
  
“Look, even if every guy in this place is has the wife, the two-point-five and the ranch-style in suburbia, it’s still a pretty decent pub. We  _could_  just chill, suck down some suds and do the whole male-bonding thing, which we haven’t done in forever.” That slow, up-country smile is rapidly turning into an accusing pout.   
  
Charles opens his mouth to calmly and quietly tell Lindsey and his stupid pout off in words of four letters and even fewer syllables--then gives it up as a bad job. It’d take too long and his beer--his  _pint_ , for chrissake!--is getting warm.  
  
So he sighs again, feeling very put upon. But Lindsey’s smile is back and even Charles finds it hard to resist for long.   
  
“You’re a manipulative shit, Linds . . . let’s at least find a table with a better view of the rugby match.”  
  


*

  
  
Two hours and three pints later, Charles is glaring at his roommate’s back.  
  
Said roommate is currently flirting with the pretty redhead tending bar and  _she’s_  laughing at his over-blown cowboy charm. And blushing bright enough that Charles can see it all the way across the bar, at the secluded table he’s sitting at. Sans best friend.  
  
But at least he’s got a clear vision of the rugby match. Go team, go.   
  
 _The way he flirts, you’d think he wasn’t practically engaged to Evie. Damn, I’m glad I’m not her._  
  
The bartender glances in Charles’s direction and says something to Lindsey, who also glances toward Charles--gives him a cheery smile and a dismissing wave--before returning to his pointless flirting.  
  
 _Ladies and germs, my wing-man. . . ._  Charles silently toasts Lindsey’s back.  _After this pint, I’m heading home, playing some Tekken 3 and calling it a night. . . ._  
  
“Excuse me,” a very soft, very British voice says. “May I join you?”  
  
Startled, Charles looks up into dark blue eyes and for a moment, the niceties of the English language desert him completely. But only for a moment. Then, he’s smiling and waving a hand at the free chair. “Sure. I got spurned for the bartender, anyway.”  
  
“Ah,” a fleeting bit of smile from the Englishman as he sits. “Aside from pouring the perfect pint, Sheila’s charms are many.”  
  
“Apparently.” Charles takes a few seconds to not-so-covertly scope out his new table companion. He’s a lanky, dark-haired guy, dressed in a tan shirt and grey slacks. From behind unassuming wire-rims, intelligent, insanely blue eyes sparkle at Charles.   
  
 _Like some kind of librarian_ , is Charles’s first thought.  _A_ hot _librarian--the kind that makes you wanna borrow books you have no intention of reading just so you can flirt with him._  
  
“So, first time here?”  
  
Again, Charles’s command of English deserts him. Interestingly enough, it returns once he looks away from those unnerving, sea-blue eyes.  
  
“That obvious, hunh?”  
  
“The  _Slaughtered Sow_  gets it’s fair share of Yanks, but they don’t usually stay for as long as you and your colorful friend have. It seems televised rugby matches don't run to the average Americans’ taste.” A slight quirking of the lips that’s not quite a smile and yes, Charles is staring at the Englishman’s mouth. Can’t seem to stop, in fact.  
  
“Yeah . . . I doubt Sheila’s drivin’ ‘em off; gotta be the rugby, then.” Charles nods toward Lindsey, who’s laughing at something the pretty bartender is saying. “I think my, uh--colorful friend would agree with you, there.”   
  
The Englishman barely glances in Lindsey’s direction, his deep blue eyes immediately sliding back to Charles. “His loss is my gain, I’d say.”  
  
Charles clears his throat. It’s certainly better than gaping at this Englishman who is  _definitely_  cruising him in the middle of a straight pub. With rugby-vision.   
  
“So, English, you’ve been watchin’ me since I got here.” It’s not a question and Charles somehow meets the Englishman’s baby blues without forgetting large chunks of his vocabulary.   
  
“What can I say?” Unabashed appraisal and slow elevator eyes make Charles blush. “You stand out.”  
  
“The only brother in a bar fulla pasty rugby enthusiasts? Your powers of observation astound me.”  
  
English glances down at his pint and when he looks up, a small smile barely curves his lips. “That’s not what I meant by stand out.”  
  
Though there’s dry humor in the cultured, even tones, there’s frank interest in the steady gaze; unveiled and intense.  
  
“What--?” Charles clears his throat and remembers to breathe. And blink. “What  _did_  you mean by stand out?”  
  
The Englishman takes an unhurried sip of his Guinness, his eyes never leaving Charles’s. “I meant that I’d very much like to buy your next pint.”  
  
For a moment, Charles isn’t sure how to respond--Lindsey’s right; Charles  _hasn’t_  exactly been a social butterfly, recently--then he drains his pint at double speed, then puts his glass down down.  
  
“You have an impeccable sense of timing,” he says, smiling wryly.   
  
“Well, one does what one can.” Another barely-there smile and the Englishman looks away again, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “I must admit, I’m not usually this . . . forward. But my longing gazes and coy, ineffectual silences have failed to catch your attention for the past two hours.”  
  
For an unprecedented twice in one night, Charles is blushing.  
  
“I believe this is the part where you tell me your name,” the Englishman says, those eyes ticking back to Charles, that voice and that accent sending pleasant chills down Charles’s spine.  
  
“Is it?” Charles knows with near perfect certainty that he’ll be giving this Englishman more than his name before the night’s over. Normally, that’s not Charles’s style--it's  _never_  been his style, but nonetheless. . . .  
  
Nonetheless.  
  
“It is.” Though the Englishman’s voice is once again laced with dry humor, his eyes are laser beams, and dead-serious. “And then we have a bit of a chat, which is but a mere prelude to me asking you back to my place for a nightcap--”  
  
“Nightcap, of course, meaning sex,” Gunn finishes, wearing a grin that feels at least as wide as one of Lindsey’s.  
  
“Of course.” The  _of course_  is more of a soft, appreciative purr than a reply. And it makes every part of Charles’s anatomy that’s capable of standing at attention do so.  
  
“Sounds like a plan, to me, English.” Charles glances toward the front of the bar at Lindsey, who’s watching him with a huge, knowing leer.  
  
 _Tall drink of milk!_  The erstwhile wing-man mouths, pointing at English and making a disturbingly graphic hand gesture.  _Told you so!_  
  
Somehow managing not to roll his eyes, Charles returns his attention to the aforementioned tall drink of milk and flashes the old magna cum laud grin. “Charles Gunn.”  
  
“Wesley,” the Englishman says wryly, taking the hand Charles holds out. His own hand is warm, dry, surprisingly calloused and when the polite moment for letting go has come and gone, Wesley still hasn't let go.   
  
Doesn’t seem interested in letting go any time soon.   
  
“Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, and I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Charles.” 


End file.
